


Square One

by bcbdrums



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Andorians, Canon Compliant, Confessions, Explanations, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nausicaans, Post-Canon, Rigelians, Serious Injuries, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5607925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bcbdrums/pseuds/bcbdrums
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 5:  Humanity's quest to find new life and new civilizations faces new obstacles in the form of xenophobia, and continued attacks from mysterious maruaders set on destabilizing the fragile peace between the species in known space.  In an effort to fight these threats both psychologically and physically, Starfleet has intiated the inter-species officer exchange.  It is hoped that the dreamed-of "coalition of planets" can still come about if efforts such as this are successful in establishing trust and maintaining peace.<br/>But if a transfer officer is injured--or dies--what will that do to the thready alliance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: TL;DR no spoilers - plot? what plot? friendship fic, serious injury, post-canon possible season 5. The tags really say it all. The summary is the plot I wish I was good enough to write.
> 
> The long notes: So I had this all ready to post and then AO3 crashed on me. So these notes aren't as good as they were...  
> This fic started as an idea to explain a silly continuity error that bugged me, and somehow it turned into this 9,000+ word barely plotted thing with several characters.
> 
> This is my first attempt at ST: Enterprise fic, and I honestly found it hard. Dialogue came very naturally, but character motivations didn't. And while a prequel-verse setting is extremely compelling to me, it requires research to keep it canonical. So this took effort. But worth it, because Shran is awesome and needs fic representation! Calling all authors, write good Shran fics!
> 
> Here's the self-recrimination part (skip to the fic now, seriously). I wrote most of this in one day, and then took a couple days' break, wrote more, and then took about seven days' break and finished it today. So the in-fic continuity itself might be off. This has potential for great plot, but I'm just too tired, honestly. Knowing me, I'll make edits to it over the next few days. Tell me about my own continuity fails please. And hey, if it's good let me know. I have lots more season 5 ideas.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**Square One**

 

“Shran!” Archer shouted, watching the Andorian fall.

He leaned out from the shuttlecraft and fired his phase pistol, striking the last Nausicaan squarely in the chest. A prudent pause halted him for a moment as the dust settled, and then he hurried out to aide his fallen comrade.

Seeing the blue-skinned alien unmoving on the ground made his breath catch, but the telltale twitch of an antenna propelled him to the Andorian’s side.

“Nice shooting, Pink-skin,” Shran coughed out.

“He was an easy target,” Archer said, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the wound. The shot had only grazed Shran’s arm, but Archer could tell the weapon had been set to kill based on the severity of the wound.

“Well?” Shran said, his forward-facing antennae professing his annoyance.

“It looks serious,” Archer replied, knowing better than to mince words with the Andorian commander. “We’ve got to get you back to _Enterprise_.

“Not without getting what we came for,” Shran insisted. He pushed himself up as Archer grimaced indecisively. “I’ll go back to the shuttlepod, you get the data file.”

“Are you sure you can make it?”

“I’ve had far worse injuries than this, Pink-skin. Some caused by _you_ ,” Shran reminded him with an upward glance. The two antennae on his head were still uneven, but Phlox predicted another two months would have him back to appearing normal.

“…All right,” Archer reluctantly agreed. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

Shran didn’t respond except to grunt as he rolled over and crawled to his feet. Archer watched for a moment to ensure the Andorian could travel, his harsh cries revealing not only the pain he was in but his unyielding drive. The captain turned away to complete their mission.

As he searched the pockets of the unconscious Nausicaans, he mentally berated his new tactical officer for his unorthodox methods. Shran had been crazy to run out of the shuttlepod like that with phase pistols blazing. But, he had taken out over half of the pirates before the captain had even gotten a shot off. Now the likelihood of recovering the stolen Rigelian trade route information was greatly increased.

T’Pol might quote the odds about it to him if he asked, but he was more focused on getting the job done so he could get Shran back to the ship. He remembered too well what a phase pulse infection could do to an Andorian, and the last time he had witnessed it the patient had received immediate medical care and still died within hours. And he found suddenly that he wasn’t prepared to see it happen again.

After searching several of the fallen he found the stolen data module on the Nausicaan captain. He should have guessed he would have it, since he was the one who stole it. T’Pol would also criticize him, he realized with a grimace, for letting his emotions distract him from the mission.

He pocketed the data module and turned to go, when a groan and the sound of a charging phase weapon made him whirl around. He was suddenly face-to-face with a seven-foot pirate and the muzzle of his weapon.

The alien stumbled, still groggy from the phase energy impact, and Archer seized the opportunity. A well-placed backhand caused the pirate’s shot to go wide, and a follow-up right cross took the man down for the second time. He would have to note in his log that the Nausicaans recovered from a phase pistol’s stun setting within minutes.

He sprinted back to the shuttlepod and found Shran starting the ignition sequence.

“I’ll take it from here. You need to rest,” he said.

“Did you get it?” Shran asked. The lack of argument caused Archer to turn from the flight chair to look at his wounded officer. The Andorian’s antennae were turned outward, and down. Not a good sign.

“Yes. And a good thing too,” Archer added as he took the shuttlepod off the surface. “If the Nausicaans got hold of these trade routes, the Rigelians would hold us responsible for any losses.”

Archer observed Shran’s equivalent of an eye roll—a slight shrugging of the eyebrows and drawing in of the antennae. He wondered if others on the ship had learned the telltale marks of Andorian emotions that the active antennae often expressed. They were at least easier to read than the blue-skinned alien’s impassive face.

“Archer to _Enterprise_ ,” he signaled as soon as they had cleared the Coridan dampening field.

“ _Enterprise_ ,” Hoshi replied immediately.

“Medical emergency. Have Phlox meet us in de-con as soon as we dock.”

“Aye Sir,” she replied before he closed the channel.

“I’d hardly call it an emergency,” Shran said coolly—another sign to Archer that he wasn’t doing well.

The captain bit his tongue against what he wanted to say and opted for something optimistic instead. “At least we didn’t run into any of the Coridan rebel factions down there.”

He kept his eyes on the stars, knowing Shran was watching him and analyzing the statement. Despite the captain’s lack of antennae and his well-controlled features, he was pretty sure Shran could read him just as easily.

Silence persisted in the several minutes it took to escape the atmosphere and dock with the ship. The commander’s quiet resignation took Archer from anxious to worried, and the cry of pain he emitted as he climbed out of the shuttlepod didn’t help.

“What is the emergency?” Phlox asked the moment the two of them were sealed in de-con.

“Shran was shot with a Nausicaan phase rifle.”

“Oh dear,” Phlox said.

“Oh please,” Shran said, actually rolling his eyes this time. “I’ve been shot more times than I can remember.”

“When the weapon was set to kill?” Archer glared at him.

“ _Yes_ , when the weapon was set to kill. And I’ve recovered every time.”

“Have you ever been shot by a Nausicaan pirate before?” Phlox interrupted.

Shran looked at him through narrowed eyes as he stumbled against the wall, his antennae shifting forward.

“I’ll examine the wound as soon as you’re cleared,” Phlox continued, and closed the comm channel.

“You’d better…” Shran paused to get his breath, “watch out for more of their ships, Captain. The Nausicaans aren’t cunning but they’re not foolish either. They’ll have reinforcements. Especially if they’re planning long-term harassment against the Rigelians.”

The captain knew as much, but didn’t say anything. Shran’s pride demanded that appear in control, despite the desperate circumstances. And Archer knew him well enough to know he needed to grant him that.

“Archer to T’Pol,” he called the bridge.

“Yes Captain,” the calm voice replied.

“Have we left orbit?”

“Yes, and we’re on course to rendezvous with the Rigelian Trade Commission’s envoy. We should reach them in approximately six hours.”

“Watch out for more Nausicaans,” he said. “Archer out.”

“You’re both clear,” Phlox reported, shutting down the de-con chamber. “But Commander Shran is already developing a nasty infection in that wound. I must see to it immediately.”

Shran narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Phlox gestured ahead of him as the pair left the chamber, and the Andorian walked slowly down the corridor.

Archer steadied himself with a deep breath. “Keep me apprised, Doctor,” he said, and turned to go the other way, toward the bridge.

 

* * *

 

“How bad is the injury?” T’Pol asked, standing inside the captain’s quarters.

“I don’t know yet. But it looked as bad as the one that killed his lieutenant less than six months ago.”

Archer had showered off the grime of Coridan, changed, and was now combing his hair. T’Pol held the data module that contained the Rigelian trade routes in both of her hands, having already verified it hadn’t been copied or altered, and was returning it to the captain per his order.

It had been common in the early days of their mission for the captain to call the science officer to his quarters to meet. On those occasions she often found him watching a water polo match recently transmitted from Earth and wanting to discuss non-critical or philosophical issues. But in the last year and a half—the time since the Xindi attack—requests to join the captain in his quarters were rare. And she hadn’t heard him mention water polo in over a year.

“You’re not a doctor,” she reminded him. “It could be superficial.”

“Shran did say…he’s survived serious phase weapon injuries before.”

“Rather than worrying about him…” she began, and Archer glanced at her abruptly, “why not contact the Andorian government and ask for their medical data on phase pulse infections?”

“It wouldn’t get here in time,” he said, turning back to his mirror.

“You don’t know that.”

Archer put the comb down, clenching his fists and leaning on the edge of his sink.

“Captain,” she began again, “if your reason for asking me here was to argue about the probability of Commander Shran’s death, may I suggest you call Ensign Sato or Commander Tucker instead.”

Archer looked at her sharply.

“Neither of them has pressing duties at the moment, and they are more likely to deliver you with…whatever emotional fulfillment this discussion is imparting, than I am.”

The captain looked away, tensing for a long moment before sighing and giving her a sheepish look.

“I’m sorry. I guess…it’s one of the ways humans face a crisis. Imagine the worst possible scenario, in case it comes to pass.”

“That is…surprisingly logical.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Vulcans always consider all possible outcomes of a situation to be best prepared for whatever may occur. However, as we do so without emotion, we are likely more prepared to face those difficult situations should they arise.”

Archer gave her a disparaging look, but before he could speak the comm in his room beeped.

“Phlox to Captain Archer.”

“Archer here,” he replied.

“Please report to sickbay.”

T’Pol looked at him evenly. “Our consideration of all options has also led us to determine that the worst possible outcome is rarely the result.”

“On my way,” Archer replied, and closed the channel.

 

* * *

 

“How is he?” Archer asked as he entered sickbay and saw Phlox standing outside the curtained biobed.

“Not well,” the doctor replied. “He is holding up better than his lieutenant did, but…the infection is rapidly poisoning his blood. I’m not sure if I can stop it.”

Archer lowered his eyes as he clenched his jaw. “Can I talk to him?”

“Yes, he’s conscious and completely aware. I gave him something for the pain, despite his…mm, protests.”

“You realize I can hear both of you,” the Andorian called in his characteristically annoyed voice.

Archer grimaced and strode through the barely-concealing privacy curtains to stand next to the alien officer.

“Well, Pink-skin. I guess this partnership was destined to be short-lived after all.”

“Phlox is going to find a way to treat this,” Archer said, hoping to encourage him.

“He couldn’t help Talas. Why should he be able to help me?” Shran said with grim resolve.

“I’m sorry that…you had to be reminded of her.”

“I still think of her often enough anyway,” Shran said, shifting uncomfortably in the biobed.

Archer looked at the wound, lower on the arm than Talas’s had been but similar in its apparent ferocity. Dark blue blood still leaked from a few places where the flesh hadn’t been seared by the nadion bursts, and some of the muscle fiber was exposed where the pulse had melted away the flesh entirely. It didn’t appear to be healing.

“Do we look anything like you pink-skins on the inside?” Shran asked, seeing the direction of Archer’s gaze.

“Except for the color? The differences aren’t that extreme in terms of…arrangement, Phlox tells me.”

Shran looked disgusted. But his curling antennae betrayed his good humor. “Don’t insult me, Pink-skin. It’s bad enough I have to serve under you, let alone have similar physiology.”

Archer grinned. “Why is your species blue, anyway?”

“Why is yours _pink_?” Shran retorted.

“We’re not all pink. Travis isn’t.”

“You’re all pink on the inside,” Shran said, hissing suddenly as he moved his arm to try to look at the wound.

“Are the Aenar…blue on the inside?” Archer asked, hoping to distract Shran from his dire condition.

“Of course. Don’t you pink-skins study biology?”

“Yes,” Archer said patiently. “But we haven’t had the chance to…extensively study alien species yet.”

“I have, if you’re interested Captain?” Phlox said, and both men turned to look at him. “In most species, the color of blood is determined by the mineral that transports oxygen throughout the body. It’s more complex than that, but…” the doctor trailed off with a shrug.

Archer looked back to Shran with a raised brow. “I know humans’ oxygen is transported by iron.”

Shran’s antennae stiffened, and Archer recognized he was bored with the topic. But he indulged him anyway. “Andorians’ oxygen is transported by copper.”

The captain’s brow rose. “So is a Vulcan’s,” he said in surprise, turning to Phlox.

“Vulcan blood has significantly more salt than an Andorian’s. That accounts for the green pigmentation.”

“Captain,” Shran said, drawing his attention back, “If you’re just going to talk about comparative physiology, I’m going to ask the doctor to give me a sedative.”

“Oh no,” Phlox scolded gently, “no sleeping for you.”

Archer looked at him quizzically. “Why not?”

Phlox pursed his lips and then walked away.

The captain looked back to Shran, whose antennae rose defiantly. “Because I may not wake up again, if I fall asleep.”

Archer clenched his jaw and looked around. Seeing a tall chair, he pulled it over and sat, lacking the patience to stand if he was going to have to endure Shran’s pessimism.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to _stay_ here?” the Andorian asked, his antennae folding back.

“Somebody’s got to keep you awake.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid!” the commander growled.

“Then call it a debriefing. What did you think you were doing out there?” he asked with equal ire.

“Accomplishing our mission. We were successful, weren’t we?”

“That’s not the point! You’re supposed to follow orders.”

“I shouldn’t have to take orders from you!” Shran shouted.

Archer clenched his jaw again. “Your government, and Starfleet, agreed to an officer exchange. The Imperial Guard got Lieutenant Reed, and I got you. You’re under my command, and you need to do as I say, whether you like it or not. Is that clear?”

Shran pushed himself upright. “You’ve barely been in space four years! I’ve commanded a warship for twelve, I’ve led over a hundred tactical missions. You should be answering to _me!_ ”

The curtain was noisily pushed back by Phlox. “This patient needs rest, Captain, and you’re not helping,” he said as he pushed the Andorian back down by the shoulders. The wound took away Shran’s ability to resist and his head hit the pillow heavily, his antennae remaining curled back. “Now,” Phlox said, “try to rest, before you go into neuroleptic shock.”

The doctor departed again, and Archer sighed into the silence. “Look. I know this hasn’t been easy for you—”

“That’s an understatement,” Shran said.

Archer frowned at him. “I have tried…to respect that you are a fellow captain. I have tried not to give orders in front of the crew that would diminish your position. Even though this is a human crew and you have no reputation to maintain with them.”

Shran sighed and let his antennae droop.

“But this _is_ a human crew. We do things differently, and I’m not going to change the way I run this ship just to accommodate your Andorian tendency for rushing into things!” he finished angrily.

Shran scowled at him, but stayed silent. After a minute Archer looked away from the intense, blue-rimmed gaze.

"We don't...rush into things," Shran argued quietly.  "We take calculated actions based on evidence.  Actions designed to achieve our goals.” He narrowed his eyes at Archer.  “You call us paranoid.  You could stand to be a little paranoid yourselves, with the attitude you pink-skins take about a first contact—you blindly accept the word of alien species, invite them onboard your ship!" he said incredulously.  "It's a wonder you've survived as long as you have."

Archer looked at him for a long moment.  He sighed and folded his hands.  "Actually...I've been meaning to thank you."

Shran was noticeably confused. "For what?"

"For being a voice of caution."

Shran's antennae drew back harshly.

"Ever since…the Xindi incident—"

"Is that what they've relegated it to?"

"I haven't felt like the man I was when _Enterprise_ began its mission."

Shran eyed him curiously, his antennae drawing forward.

"I don't...really expect you to understand—"

One didn't need to be familiar with Andorian antennae movements to see the man was offended.

"But I used to enjoy our mission.  I was excited about the prospects of meeting new species, and discovering new worlds.  Now...after everything that's happened..."

"You're adopting a more realistic view of space," Shran offered.

"No...” he said patiently, “I still think we're of the right mind.  And the Vulcans, too."

"The Vulcans!"

"Seeking out diversity in infinite combinations?  Working together for a better future, for all species.  That’s the purpose of the Coalition, isn’t it? Those are the goals we all agreed upon."

Shran looked away. "Impossible to achieve."

"I disagree.  But…if I approach this mission expecting everyone we meet to shoot at us, we'll never get there.”

Shran regarded him a moment, and then his antennae stood erect as he painfully pushed himself up on his elbows. Archer raised a curious brow.

“So if I help you be cautious, and the Vulcan helps you be logical…what do you offer to this…trial run of the Coalition onboard your ship?”

Archer grinned and shrugged with his hands. “A balance, perhaps? I do know this,” he said, leaning closer to Shran. “Ever since you’ve come aboard I’ve been able to sleep easier, and focus on why humanity decided to come out here.”

“Exploring,” the Andorian said disdainfully, laying down again.

“And…I know that you and T’Pol have got my back, no matter the situation we run into.”

Shran stared at him again, and only the movements of his antennae gave Archer the slightest idea what the Andorian captain was thinking. Despite the myriad of emotions the man displayed he could be as unreadable as the Vulcans without his biological headgear.

“Excuse me, Captain,” Phlox interrupted, “but I have a proposal I’d like to make to you and Commander Shran.”

Both men turned. “What is it?”

Phlox hesitated. “The human immune system is highly resistant to this type of infection. I’d like to take a page out of Doctor Soong’s book and create an antigen by modifying human antibodies.”

“Doctor Soong?”

“An Earth geneticist,” Archer supplied.

Shran cocked his head in perplexity. “How will you do that?”

“I will need to infect a human host with these specific bacteria and then collect the antibodies produced. I will then genetically modify your antibodies Commander with data from the human ones to fight the infection.”

“What are the risks?” Archer asked.

“I might not be able to modify the antibodies. And there’s no telling what response the human immune system will have on a specifically Andorian infection. It could be fatal.”

Archer looked away, steeling himself against the resistance he knew was coming.

“How long will this take?”

“Several hours, before I can even begin modifying the antibodies. I’ve already extracted the bacteria, but I have to infect a human host and wait for the immune system to do its job. There’s no way of knowing how rapidly it will progress in a human.”

“Will it take longer than Shran has on his own?”

“ _No_ , Captain,” Shran interjected. “I won’t let you do it.”

“How long will it take to complete the treatment?” he asked again, ignoring the Andorian.

Phlox folded his hands and looked down. “A couple of days.”

Archer grimaced and looked away, trying to rein in his anger. “That’s the best you can do?” he barked.

“I _told_ you, I won’t let you!” Shran said again, pushing himself up. “My life isn’t worth that much.”

“Yes it is,” Archer said, turning on him.

“Whatever you decide,” Phlox said, “decide quickly.”

The doctor stepped around the barely worthwhile privacy curtain and left the two glaring at one another. Archer took several quick breaths before he exploded.

“Shran—”

“Captain,” the Andorian said more evenly, “if my immune system can’t handle the infection, I’ll be dead before he completes the treatment. And if it can, then his efforts serve no purpose.”

For a rare moment, the Andorian captain’s eyes were soft instead of calculating. Understanding, instead of judgmental.

Archer stared at him, trying to decide if Shran was being sincere or suicidal. While he often believed the latter of the man, the former was clearly behind his words in this instance.

“And I’m supposed to just let nature take its course?”

“That’s all you can do. I know,” Shran said ardently when Archer began to protest, “how difficult it is to give up control, Captain.”

That got Archer’s attention. He relaxed into the chair and listened.

“Think about it. Every time we give an order, we don’t know what’s going to happen. We have to trust our knowledge and experience as commanders that things will end in our favor. That’s why I left the shuttlepod when I did.”

“What?” Archer asked.

“The Nausicaans do _not_ negotiate, and their weapons don’t have a stun setting. The only hope of recovering the data was to take them by surprise, which they wouldn’t have expected from you.”

Archer realized Shran was right about the course of action, even if he had entirely ignored the chain of command in pursuing it. But the captain was more interested in his tactical officer’s former statement than anything to do with the mission right now.

“I never thought I’d hear you talking about giving up control,” he said.

“It’s not in an Andorian’s nature,” Shran said, “but a good leader must be able to do so. And…”

He sighed, shifting painfully on his elbows. Archer raised a curious brow.

“I learned a lot about…trust, when the marauder was attacking this region of space.”

“None of us were in control then.”

“Trusting the Aenar…Jhamel…wasn’t easy for me. But I found something new in myself, because of that incident. Because of her.”

Archer watched as Shran’s lopsided antennae drifted down and his eyes grew distant. And then he noticed something.

“Shran…” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“What?”

“Your antennae are…changing color.”

“What?” Shran said, and the two small appendages moved farther forward than Archer had ever seen as Shran looked for himself. “Oh. That’s normal.”

“Normal to turn…that shade of yellow?”

The little cup-like ends of the antennae, usually a deep salmon color, had turned a sickly shade of yellow at the interior. The pink that remained was much paler than usual.

“It’s to do with our white blood cells. Whenever we’re seriously ill, some of them gather in the antennae. Unattractive, I know.”

“But…I’ve seen you with your antennae this color before,” Archer said, confused.

Shran looked at him almost defensively. “When?”

“On Paan Mok— I mean Weytahn, almost three years ago. And in the Expanse when you captured the Xindi prototype. Your antennae were completely yellow then.”

“Oh,” Shran said, acknowledging the fact. With a grimace he finally lay down again, pulling the sickbay-issue sheet away from his injured arm. Archer wondered if the pain medication was wearing off.

“Does that mean…you were recovering from serious illnesses both of those times?”

“Actually…” Shran almost grinned, “they were phase pulse infections.”

Archer stared at him disbelievingly. “You could have mentioned that before now.”

Shran glanced away. “I’ve survived four of these infections, but I never take it lightly. Every weapon is different, and like the doctor said…I’ve never been shot by a Nausicaan before.”

The captain sighed. “I thought these things were usually fatal, or disfiguring.”

“There’s always that risk.”

“Then how come you’ve been so lucky in the past?”

Shran closed his eyes, his antennae rising to be almost straight up. Archer leaned forward in interest.

“I’ve built up something of an immunity to particular types of phase pulse infections over the years. I was…accidentally shot by a phase weapon in one of my earliest training exercises,” he said casually.

Archer looked at him until he opened his eyes. With a characteristic shrug of his eyebrows, the Andorian continued.

“We were running a series of tactical simulations. Two teams were pitted against each other with the goal of taking the enemy command center.”

“Capture the flag.”

Shran eyed him.

“It’s a human expression. Sorry, go on.”

“Both teams were well-matched, but I had an idea to give us the advantage.”

Shran coughed suddenly, and Archer looked around for water to give him. Finding none, he began to rise, but Shran motioned him back down.

“I’m fine. The training exercises were held in the Old City.”

“Old City?”

“Where my people lived thousands of years ago, long before we discovered incandescent light. The structures still stand, but they’re abandoned. Our current cities are built above them.”

“This place is underground?”

“Entirely, like all our cities. Some of it is buried in ice. I’ve seen all of it freeze in especially harsh winters.”

“So you’re training in this Old City, and you had an idea to advance your team’s position,” Archer guided him back to the main point. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phlox standing at the curtain listening.

“It was during the spring thaw, so not all of the buildings were exposed. Many of the trainees tried to go over the roofs to gain access to the enemy side. But I took the unexpected route. I crawled under the outer support structures, my belly to the ice, for almost fifty meters before I reached them.”

“What happened?”

“When I got there I had to scale an ice cliff to get back inside. I dropped onto the roof of the building they were using as their command center and positioned myself to go through the skylight. They never saw me coming. When I dropped in one of the trainees was so…afraid, he fired several shots in succession. Even though they were only training rifles, the injuries his multiple shots gave me put me out of commission for a week.”

With a grunt of pain Shran pushed himself all the way up, and with his good arm he pulled down the sheet covering his torso and revealed a large, round scar on his ribcage. The ample white scar tissue was evidence of how bad a wound it had been.

“That was my first phase pulse infection. I only recovered because the shots were from a training rifle. Similar to the stun setting on your phase pistols.”

“Andorians are…more susceptible to phased energy weapons than other species we’ve encountered,” Archer said, noting a smaller similar scar on Shran’s other arm.

Shran nodded. “Since that time I’ve had three other phase pulse infections. This one makes five. It’s the only time there hasn’t been an Andorian physician around to treat me.”

Phlox chose that moment to re-enter the conversation.

“If I am to pursue the modified antibody treatment, I must begin. Now, have you come to a decision?”

Archer opened his mouth to speak, but Shran cut him off.

“I won’t accept the treatment,” he said forcefully.

“Shran!”

“It’s not worth the risk to you.”

“Can you let me decide that?”

“No,” he said as he laid down slowly. “Doctor, if you try to use that treatment I won’t accept it.”

Archer’s jaw tightened as he glared at the Andorian, who refused to make eye contact.

“You’d better get back to running your ship before your crew thinks you were the one shot by the Nausicaans,” Shran said, his antennae high and curled.

“Doctor, may I speak with you?” Archer said through clenched teeth, stalking away from the bed and stopping by the door.

“Captain,” Phlox said in hushed tones as he followed, “you know my ethics won’t allow me to treat a patient who refuses it.”

“Apparently Shran knows that too.”

“I can pursue other treatments,” Phlox tried to encourage the man.

“The same ones you used on Talas?” Archer hissed.

Phlox sighed. “Yes. But you heard what he said, he’s survived four other infections like this. His immune system might take care of it even without Andorian doctors.”

The captain sighed and stared at the deck plating.

“Let me know if his condition changes,” he said as he stormed out the door.

 

* * *

 

“The Rigelians are grateful. They might actually agree to join the talks about the formation of the Coalition,” Admiral Gardner said over the comm channel.

“They don’t still want my head?” Archer asked.

The admiral chuckled. “No, they’ve concluded all of our evidence about the marauder was true. In fact, the reason they’re considering our invitation is because of continued unexplained attacks on their ships.”

“Other than the Nausicaans?”

“The Nausicaans they’re used to dealing with. But their representative spoke of…mysterious invisible ships that destroy without ever communicating.”

Archer considered. “It sure sounds like Romulans. Have you spoken with the Vulcans about these attacks?”

“Not yet.”

“The former High Command had some useful research involving Romulan power cells. And if the marauders we encountered last year were Romulan then all the data we collected about their ships could be useful as well. You could offer it to the Rigelians. A gesture.”

“Your recommendations are noted. I’ll let you know what happens Captain.”

“Admiral, there is…one more thing.”

“Yes?” Gardner replied with raised brow, clearly ready for the transmission to end.

“Our Andorian officer, Shran, was wounded in the raid against the Nausicaans. He may not survive.”

The admiral frowned. “We’ll transmit all medical data the Andorians have given us. And we’ll inform the Andorian ambassador. I don’t have to tell you Captain, the Andorians operate on a hair-trigger. If they suspect any misconduct—”

“I’ll have Shran…file his report, so there will be no question about what happened.”

“I thought you said his condition is serious?”

“He has to be kept conscious. He’ll appreciate having something useful to do.”

“I’ll leave that to your discretion. Best of luck. Gardner out.”

The channel closed and the screen darkened. Archer sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Archer to Phlox,” he said as he pushed the comm button.

“Phlox here,” came the reply a moment later.

“If Shran is up to it…have him write his report about the raid against the Nausicaans.”

“Captain, I hardly think—”

“It will be particularly helpful to Starfleet’s maintaining relations with Andoria, if…he doesn’t make it.”

There was a long pause. Archer knew this was in violation of Phlox’s medical sensibilities.

“Doctor.”

“Aye, Captain,” Phlox sighed through the comm. “Knowing the commander, he’ll probably enjoy the distraction.”

Archer sighed and closed the channel.

He stared at the surface of his desk. The murky matte gray of the surface could have described his emotions at present. He was as worried about Shran as he was angry with him. His faith in Phlox and in the Andorian immune system was strong, but he didn’t agree with Shran’s refusal of the treatment. It didn’t even make sense, considering what Shran had just said about giving up control.

That perhaps was most perplexing of all, given everything Archer knew about the Andorian captain. His grasp on control was so strong that he had been willing that both of them die in a duel to the death, rather than concede to the Tellarites.

And just before they fought, Shran had called him his friend.

Archer’s confused thoughts ground to a halt as that recent memory surfaced. He hadn’t even realized the Andorian considered him a friend, since every time they met the situations put them at odds.

But four weeks ago circumstances had changed, and Shran was now a member of his crew. The new assignment hadn’t changed the man, as shown by the Andorian captain’s difficulty following orders from a human who was his junior in every regard. He offended other crewmen regularly, often deliberately, and he made it clear that an Earth ship was the last place he wanted to serve in as many terms as he could.

Despite all this…Archer wanted him on the ship. He wasn’t pleased or displeased that Shran was there, but he did want him. He would grieve if he was to die, and he would be angry if the new treatment could prevent it.

But was Shran his friend?

The captain sighed and pushed the comm button again. “Archer to T’Pol.”

“T’Pol,” came the soft reply.

“Would you come to my ready room, please?” he asked.

The channel closed, and he knew he would see his First Officer in a moment. He hoped she wouldn’t mind playing counselor for him. He was still too irritated to talk to Phlox.

The door slid open and the Vulcan entered, wearing the pale blue version of the modified Vulcan civilian’s suit she favored. It suited his present preoccupation.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked when he said nothing, and he realized his mind had drifted to more blue memories.

“Yes,” he said, and swiveled the chair to face her. “How do…Vulcans define friendship?”

Both of T’Pol’s eyebrows rose, and she adjusted her stance as she considered the question. “As an association between individuals, in which both parties enjoy mutual benefits from the association.”

“You make it sound like a contract.”

“As I understand human friendships, there is a great deal of emotion involved. That is not a component of Vulcan friendships. It can be said though that…interests are shared, between Vulcan friends,” she explained.

Archer stood and stretched broadly. More chairs than the one on the bridge could stand from modification. “Do you consider any members of the crew to be your friends?”

T’Pol lifted one brow. “Yes.”

“Would it be…too personal if I ask who?”

T’Pol crossed her arms. “Doctor Phlox, Commander Tucker, and yourself.”

He nodded. “Why…are you friends with each of us?” he continued.

“Captain. Why are you questioning me about my friendships?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to turn about the small room. “I’m sure you know…Shran might not survive his injuries from the raid. I guess I just wanted…to define _our_ association.”

“Why?”

Archer paused briefly, not entirely sure of the answer himself. “When humans…lose someone, it usually helps the grieving process if the relationship is clearly defined in our minds,” he said after a moment.

T’Pol uncrossed her arms and folded her hands behind her back. “Perhaps my observations might help you define your relationship with the commander.”

Archer stopped in front of her and nodded his assent.

“From what I have observed, the two of you do appear to be…friends.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“What about…our behavior makes you think we’re friends?”

“You spend a lot of time together,” she said. “You take multiple meals alone with him in the course of a week, and you consult with him privately about our mission. You also appear to have taken it upon yourself to be his instructor in human behavior.”

“We argue about battle tactics. He tells me about Andorian culture and then complains about human culture. He challenges my authority,” Archer protested.

T’Pol was silent a moment, and then took a step closer. “The majority of my conversations with Commander Tucker that aren’t related to ship’s business consist of him…teasing me. At times he has almost succeeded in eliciting…irritation within me.”

Archer looked at her with raised brows.

“Despite this, I still consider him a friend.”

“Why?”

“Likely for the same reasons that you choose him as friend as opposed to any other engineer on board. To use a human phrase, we have ‘chemistry.’”

The captain failed in holding back a smirk. “Chemistry.”

“Affirmative.”

Archer made his way back to his chair as he tried to gain control over his grin. “Is that…how you would characterize _our_ friendship?”

“No,” T’Pol replied, and Archer’s face fell. He raised a questioning brow, so T’Pol continued. “Our relationship is based primarily on our duty to _Enterprise_ , and some shared goals.”

The captain looked back at the surface of the desk as he pondered her words. Mentally reviewing what he considered pivotal moments for the two of them, he realized she was right. And that bothered him.

“We’ve both…made gestures to each other, over the years. To show compassion beyond duty.”

“Agreed. But to use another human phrase, if we were to ‘meet on the streets,’ do you think we would be friends?”

Archer had no immediate response as he stared down at his desk. Whatever clarity he had hoped T’Pol could bring him was lost in the murky gray once again.

“If there’s nothing else…?” T’Pol said, and he heard the door slide open in response to her command.

“T’Pol,” he said, turning suddenly to look at her. She raised her brow in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

She nodded ever so slightly, and left the captain alone with his uncertain thoughts.

 

* * *

 

“Trip, do you have a minute?” Archer asked, climbing up on top of the warp reactor to find his Chief Engineer.

“Depends on what you want me to do with that minute,” Trip said, throwing a grin over his shoulder as he worked.

Archer sat next to him with a sigh, not sure how to phrase the questions in his mind. It had been easier with T’Pol.

Trip paused in his work and watched him closely when he said nothing. “How’s Shran doing?”

Archer frowned. “Phlox has an idea for treatment, but Shran has refused it.”

“How come?”

“I’m not sure,” Archer said, looking up at him.

Trip’s brow furrowed. “Well what’s the treatment?”

“Phlox wants to genetically modify Shran’s antibodies using data from human antibodies to fight the infection. The only problem is, he would need to infect a human with the illness first, and there’s no way of knowing what would happen to that person.”

Trip raised his brow. “Huh.”

“And, it’s likely Shran would die long before the treatment was ready anyway,” Archer finished, shaking his head at the impossible situation.

“If it’s all the same Cap’n, I’d refuse the treatment too.”

“Why?”

“Well wouldn’t you? Think about it.”

The captain folded his hands over his knees and did as his chief engineer suggested. If it were him infected with mutated bacteria and dying, would he want another person to be infected with the disease on the off-chance a treatment could be synthesized? There was only one answer.

“It seems…a little too human for Shran, to care about someone else that much.”

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on him,” Trip said as he resumed his work. “Besides, he doesn’t want to risk your life.”

“ _My_ life?”

“Well you’d be the one infected with the disease, wouldn’t you? I know you wouldn’t order anyone else to do that.”

“That’s right, I wouldn’t.”

“Shran knows that too. He doesn’t want you gettin’ sick.”

“Why not?”

Trip looked at him disbelievingly. “‘Cause he’s your friend.”

Archer smiled wanly and stretched his legs out across the top of the warp reactor.

“What?” Trip said.

Archer shrugged. “I guess…I hadn’t really considered him a friend before.”

Trip set the spanner down and turned to face his captain. “You’re kidding, right? With all the time the two of you spend together?”

“That’s what T’Pol said.”

“You talked to T’Pol about this?”

Archer nodded.

“If you’re not careful Cap’n, people are going to start spreading the same rumors about you and Shran that they used to spread about you and her.”

The captain was taken aback. “What rumors?”

Trip drew a wary breath. “…Nah, I’ve said too much already.”

The engineer packed his tools back into his kit and climbed down the ladder.

“But Cap’n,” he called back up, “if the two of you aren’t friends, then why do you spend so much time together?”

“We argue about cultural differences!” Archer retorted.

“That’s all you and T’Pol used to do,” Trip reminded him, and then left his commanding officer seated alone on top of the warp reactor.

 

* * *

 

“Come in,” T’Pol said when the chime to her door beeped.

“If I’m interrupting, I can come back,” Archer said, noticing the meditation materials laid out in the room.

“You’re not interrupting,” the Vulcan replied, seating herself on the edge of her bed.

Archer closed the door behind him and sat heavily in one of the chairs.

“Has Commander Shran’s condition changed?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“Actually…I came to apologize,” the captain changed the subject.

“Apologize?” she said.

“Yes. I’ve been thinking…about what you said earlier, about friendship. And I was also talking to Trip…” He looked up into her open, trusting face—so different than when they met more than four years ago—and he realized that this apology had needed to happen a long time ago. He sighed. “You’re my friend T’Pol. And I don’t think I’ve been treating you like one.”

T’Pol raised an eyebrow. “You’re my commanding officer.”

“I don’t mean that I should be more…affectionate,” he offered the term, and she acknowledged with a nod, “but I’ve kept you at arm’s length. I’ve even dismissed your advice—advice from a friend, because I’ve been afraid of the next…crisis that we might have to face.”

T’Pol folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward, her eyes guiding him to continue.

“I want things to be the way they used to be. I want to be…the way _I_ used to be. But I’m afraid that if I let my guard down some new disaster will strike.”

“You are concerned about the emotional effect it will have on you.”

“That makes sense,” Archer said, looking confused now. “But how would you know?”

“One of the benefits to suppressing emotions is that we never have to face that reality.”

Archer frowned. “I guess my subconscious efforts to suppress mine haven’t been all that successful.”

“No,” T’Pol said, and Archer blinked in surprise at her frankness. “Captain, has it been helpful to you, to attempt emotional detachment from your friends, and from our mission?”

“No. I just said that.”

T’Pol stood, and slowly moved to her meditation pillow on the floor near where the captain sat.

“If I offer you advice, as a friend…will you take it?”

Archer sighed lightly and then nodded.

“It is not logical to continue on a course that has proven to be futile. Perhaps harmful, due to the naturally emotional nature of your species.”

“You’re saying…I should be more emotional?”

“I’m saying you should be yourself.”

 

* * *

 

“Phlox to Captain Archer.”

Archer sat up quickly from where he’d been reclining in bed, watching the latest water polo match between Stanford and Princeton.

“Go ahead,” he said a little too loudly into the comm.

“I have an update on Commander Shran’s condition, if you’d like to come to sickbay.”

“I’m on my way,” he said.

When the captain arrived on E Deck, he suddenly became very aware of his surroundings and his body within them. The feel of the deck plates under his shoes, the distance from the top of his head to the roof of the corridor—all meaningless, but stalling his having to think about what he might find when he reached sickbay.

All too soon he was there. He paused to wipe his suddenly perspiring palms on his thighs, and then he opened the door.

The privacy curtain was still in place, but he could see beyond it that Shran lay unmoving with his eyes closed. Not even his antennae moved, and they lay fallen back and unexpressive. The Denobulan doctor stood at his side, hands folded in front of him.

“Phlox?” he asked softly as he approached.

“Ah, Captain,” the doctor said, turning.

“How is he?”

“The commander was right. His own immune system is diligently fighting the infection, though the progress is slow. It seems his physiology is as stubborn and resilient as he is.”

“Then he’ll live?”

“I think so, unless the infection mutates drastically. I would like to speak with an Andorian physician about this, since my last attempts at treating this type of infection were futile. We need to be prepared in case the commander suffers future injuries of this nature.”

“Knowing Shran, that’s a strong possibility.”

Phlox chuckled. “Indeed it is.”

Archer stepped closer to the sleeping alien, noticing the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s all right for him to sleep now?”

“Yes. I’m convinced he’s out of immediate danger. And he could certainly use the rest.”

The captain slowly lowered himself into the chair he had occupied before and regarded the sleeping officer. The wound on his arm had finally stopped bleeding and begun to close of its own accord. The tips of his antennae were entirely yellow now, unattractive as Shran had said, but indicative of the fight raging within his body.

“Fighting…” the thought tumbled from his lips, and Phlox narrowed his eyes at him.

“What?”

Archer blinked, surprised at himself, but continued. “He’s always fighting…something. Even when he’s in a good mood, I can see it in his eyes.”

“His immune system is fighting for his life now,” Phlox said.

“I know, but…look at him.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen him like this before.”

The difference in the Andorian’s features as he slept was indeed profound. His breathing was steady and calm, and his face was absolutely still. His white eyelashes stood out starkly against his near-translucent blue skin, and not a single wrinkle marred his features as he slept. His hands were still at his sides atop the bed sheet, and there wasn’t so much as a twitch from his antennae.

“Asleep?” Phlox asked, still not following.

“Unguarded,” Archer said.

“Ah,” Phlox nodded. “Most of the ship captains I’ve known don’t like to be seen in such a state.”

Archer looked at the doctor, who smiled knowingly.

A moment passed. “How long will he need to stay here?”

“A day, maybe two at the rate he’s progressing. But I don’t him back on duty for at least twice that.”

“He’ll probably fight you on that,” Archer said, his gaze drifting back to the Andorian.

“He is going to have to get used to medical orders superseding his own,” the doctor said as he checked Shran’s vital signs on the monitor above the biobed. “Now if you’ll excuse me captain. It’s late, and my Pyrithian bat is hungry.”

Archer smiled, and the doctor stepped outside the curtain. A few seconds later the lights dimmed to ship’s night level, and not long after he heard the telltale rustling of leaves and the high-pitched screeches of the winged alien mammal.

The captain listened to the routine as he watched the calm face of the sleeping officer—the doctor speaking to his animals as if they were sentient, followed by the sounds of their satisfaction as they received their meals. A brief silence followed the feedings, followed by a familiar loud snipping sound.

Archer grimaced, remembering that the Denobulan’s toenails were also a food source for some of the medical animals.

The sound of the large keratin growths being clipped was apparently disgusting across species, because it was during those moments that the tips of the Andorian’s antennae began to spasm. At the sound of the tenth nail finally being cut, Shran’s eyes opened.

The blue-skinned man stared at the ceiling for a moment before his eyes drifted to Archer seated beside him. Calm he remained, but the shrewd, guarded expression instantly overtook his features when he saw the captain.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been there all evening.”

“I just got here,” Archer said.

Shran looked back at the ceiling. “On my world, when a person is ill they are left to heal in peace.”

Archer grinned tolerantly. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, standing and pushing the chair aside.

“Did you want something?” Shran asked quickly, and Archer turned back to the bed.

“Just…to see if I would need to request Lieutenant Reed be recalled in the morning. I wouldn’t want to be without a chief tactical officer for very long.”

With less apparent pain than before Shran pushed himself upright. He looked at the captain with an appraising curiosity that made Archer uncomfortable.

“You know Captain, you remind me of a whitehawk.”

“A whitehawk?”

“A small bird of prey native to Andoria. Adapted to live in the glacial cliffs, but they nest in caves. They’re a highly intelligent predatory species, with a complex social structure among their flocks.”

Archer leaned forward. “I remind you of one?”

“The alpha whitehawk has a unique behavior. If another of the flock is sick, it stays at the nest of that hawk, not even leaving to hunt until the other is well.”

The captain’s brows drew together. “I can’t decide if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Why are you so concerned with my well-being, Captain? I haven’t seen you hover this much over any member of the crew.”

Archer looked down and thought about what he wanted to say, and how to say it so that the Andorian would understand.

“I told you before…that I’m grateful you’re serving on the _Enterprise_ ,” he said.

“I’m your voice of caution,” Shran replied with a frown.

“And action,” Archer said thoughtfully, “but that’s not the only reason I’m glad you’re here.”

The Andorian’s antennae folded and faced forward.

“From what I’ve seen and learned,” he continued, “the Imperial Guard maintains a set of standards…not too different from Starfleet’s. You follow a code of honor, and respect. The officers under your command obey without question, and there’s trust between you and your subordinates. The role of the captain is unique, and requires loyalty.”

“Agreed,” Shran said, his antennae rising and curling again.

“I’ll get to the point,” Archer said, noting the man’s unease. He took a breath. “It’s lonely at the top.”

Shran’s brows drew together.

“As commanding officers, we’re not just responsible but we’re _held_ responsible. And even though we can ask for advice and choose whether or not we take it, the weight of our actions rests solely on our shoulders. Command is…a noose more often than a position of liberty.”

“I know all this,” Shran said impatiently.

“What I’m trying to say is…it hasn’t been quite as lonely in the captain’s chair,” he met Shran’s eyes, “since you’ve come aboard.”

The Andorian’s antennae remained upright and curling. Distrustful.

“Even though on _Enterprise_ you serve under my command, I’ve never thought of you as being subordinate. It’s been helpful…to have a friend.”

He watched the blue-skinned man’s antennae straighten as surprise filled his eyes and he looked down and away. For the next few moments the captain was treated to a view of changing emotions from the Andorian as his antennae first pulled back and then fell forward, turning out before finally curving inward to that position Archer understood to be neutral but alert. The smallest of cunning and understanding smiles ghosted over Shran’s features.

“And I guess…I wasn’t prepared for the possibility of you being killed.”

“Something I think most species have in common,” Shran replied, favoring the captain with a quick glance. “Losing people.”

Archer watched the man’s antennae dip to a position indicating sadness. Surprised, he leaned forward and waited for Shran to continue.

“Like most of my family, I’ve dedicated my life to the Imperial Guard. When the _Kumari_ was destroyed, I lost everyone. Everyone I ever cared about was on that ship. Talas was the only one I had left, until…”

“You still think about her.”

“It _is_ lonely at the top. I didn’t realize how lonely until she…until we…”

“I understand,” Archer said.

“And then she was gone. And the Imperial Guard gave me several venerable options, but none that I felt I could accept. After twelve years of commanding interstellar missions, being grounded didn’t hold much appeal.”

“And then Starfleet…proposed the officer exchange program, as a way of promoting the merits of an interspecies coalition,” Archer followed the Andorian’s leading.

“It goes without saying that I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of serving under your command. But it got me back on a ship,” Shran finished. His antennae righted themselves and dipped forward slightly, attentively. He finally looked back at Archer. “And it’s not quite as lonely.”

The captain leaned back in the chair and folded his hands in his lap. “I know _Enterprise_ won’t ever be what the _Kumari_ was to you. But for as long as you’re here, I hope it can become—”

The sound of the sickbay doors opening interrupted him, and both men turned and watched through the curtain as a slim silhouette with distinctively pointed ears approached.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” T’Pol said as she moved the curtain aside.

“Not at all,” both men answered at once, and then looked at each other in surprise.

T’Pol raised an eyebrow. “How are you feeling, Commander?”

“Better,” Shran answered, shifting in the bed. “It’s not quite an Andorian hospital, but your doctor has proven to be a skilled physician.”

T’Pol’s second eyebrow joined her first, and then she turned to the captain.

“Since you’re still awake Captain, I thought you would want to be informed—Starfleet has been in contact.  After reading both yours and the commander’s reports, the Rigelians have expressed their gratitude and have requested continued assistance from Starfleet until the pressure from the Nausicaans has subsided.”

Archer smiled at them both. “That’s good news. I assume they’ve ordered us to continue patrolling the Rigelian border?”

“Actually, _Columbia_ has been ordered to come take our place,” she replied. Both men looked surprised. “After we rendezvous, we can continue our primary mission.”

Archer’s jaw slackened as he processed that new information. Next to him, the blue-skinned alien grinned confidently.

“It looks like they haven’t forgotten why you pink-skins are out here after all.”

Archer regained his equanimity quickly. “I admit, I’m surprised. Lately it’s seemed like they’ve decided to leave the exploring to _Columbia_ and have _Enterprise_ take on more of a militaristic role.”

“That’s more along the lines of something the Vulcans would do,” Shran quipped.

“Or the Andorians,” T’Pol replied.

“Please. Don’t start, you two,” Archer said, though the reprimand was good-natured.

T’Pol raised an eyebrow innocently and Shran’s antennae curled inward. Archer looked between them a moment before chuckling to himself.

“I don’t know about the two of you,” he said, rising from the chair, “but I could use some sleep.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to with all the noise your doctor is making,” Shran complained.

From another part of sickbay Phlox replied, “I can inject you with hormones from my Geminorian reptile to help you sleep.”

“I’ll pass,” the Andorian said with a grimace.

T’Pol inclined her head politely and turned to leave. “Good night, gentleman.”

“Good night,” Archer said.

No sooner had she left than Phlox entered, bearing not a reptile but a dripping Osmotic eel.

“Since your body is fighting the infection so well, this is a good time to let my Osmotic eel begin regenerating your wounded tissues,” the doctor said cheerily.

“Get that thing away from me!”

“Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing while you’re asleep.”

“I’ll put _you_ in one of these beds!” the Andorian threatened.

Archer made a discreet exit as the two quibbled. “Good night,” he called as he made his way toward the sickbay doors.

From behind the closed curtain the argument between the two aliens continued, but was suddenly interrupted.

“Don’t put that—good night Captain. I said don’t put that thing on my arm!”

As the doors closed behind him, Archer smiled.


End file.
